Mogh stepped up to stand beside K’mpec. “It is not what we had hoped,” the commander said. “But when I look back on this day, it will be one of celebration. I will not mourn the loss of the cowards who invaded our space to fight a mere communications relay. I will instead see this as a victory against an unworthy foe who deserved nothing less than what they received.”
K’mpec regarded his first officer carefully. There was, once again, no glee in his voice, no joy in victory, simply a recitation of duty. As usual.But the captain did not know whether or not Mogh had been responsible for the destruction of the Boklaror not.
What he did know was that the actions of this day would have long-term consequences. Already, K’mpec was beginning to formulate ways he could work them to his advantage.
Chapter 17
Cardassia Prime
“An excellent meal, Kurrgo.”
The Klingon smiled widely at the Hallitz family—a Cardassian man, his wife, their five children, and one grandchild—as they moved toward the exit of his restaurant. In his heavily accented Cardassian, he said, “It is my pleasure to bring food to your plate, my friends.”
“I still don’t know how you can get such fresh pipiusclaw,” the father said, shaking his head.
“I have my sources,” was all Kurrgo would say in reply. In fact, his “source” was a Ferengi who made regular trips across the border—though those trips were getting less regular of late.
“Careful,” the father said with a chuckle. “I’ll have my son-in-law check into your ‘sources,’ and then we’ll be able to get by without you.” The eldest daughter’s husband—and father to the grandchild—was a respected gul in the Cardassian military. His duties prevented him from joining the rest of the family for meals with any regularity, though he was, at least, posted to Cardassia Prime.
The mother snorted. “As if I could prepare Klingon dishes with anything like Kurrgo’s skill.”
Kurrgo bowed. “You honor me with your praise.”
“I merely speak the truth,” the mother said. “Thank you again.”
“Mother, my food was moving.You said you’d tellthem!” That was the grandchild, a girl of only three.
Kurrgo squatted down so he was face-to-face with the young girl, whose name, Kurrgo recalled, was Alyn. Her ridges were barely starting to form—her skin was almost as smooth as a Romulan’s. “You ordered racht,little one. Rachtis best served live.”
Alyn pouted. “I don’t like it when my food moves. It’s icky.”
“Perhaps. But then, if it does not move, it’s too easy to catch. You see, we Klingons believe in conquering our food, hunting it. The hunt should not end just because the food has already reached the plate.”
The girl brightened. “So it’s like a game?”
“Exactly! So next week when you and your parents come here, treat the rachtas if it were trying to get away from you—and you must hunt it with your fork!”
She smiled. “Okay!”
They all laughed, and soon the family departed, heading for an evening home before the trials of the workday began again the following day. The mother, Traya Hallitz, had been brought here once for a business-related meal. Kurrgo remembered the day well, for she had come in with her nose wrinkled, her lips pursed, and had refused to order anything beyond a glass of water. Her companion—one of Kurrgo’s regulars—had laughed and insisted that she at least try the rokegblood pie. She refused at first, but he had managed to get her to take a bite of bok-ratliver.
To Traya’s own great surprise, she loved it. She wound up ordering a full meal, and a week later, she brought her husband—a self-proclaimed lover of exotic foods—and eventually, the entire family made it a weekly ritual to have their evening meal at Kurrgo’s.
It was from exactly such types that Kurrgo made his business. After all, while he was a decent chef, there were better ones in the Empire. To follow in his parents’ footsteps and open an eatery on Qo’noS or one of the other Klingon worlds would only allow him to be one of many—and not the best. So Kurrgo instead struck out into the unknown, determined to bring the joys of Klingon cuisine to foreign planets.
Ten years, and several false starts later—it had taken years to pay off the massive debts incurred by his failed attempt to open an establishment on Tellar; apparently too few Tellarites found Klingon food sufficiently appealing to keep a restaurant afloat—he found himself thriving on Cardassia Prime. The expansion of the Cardassian Union had led to a great curiosity among the natives as to the wonders of the galaxy, including the types of foods eaten by all the new species they were encountering every day.
For the first decade or so, business had been good. He finally paid off all his debts, both the ones incurred on Tellar and those he took on in order to get this place going, and the restaurant started to show something resembling a profit—or at least made enough for him to live comfortably.
At last, he had won. He had brought Klingon cuisine to Cardassia.
Sadly, of late, Cardassia seemed less and less interested in the Klingon cuisine he offered. The growing number of incidents between the two governments had resulted in a downturn in business. The regulars like the Hallitz family weren’t the problem—it was the walk-in business, the curious thrill-seekers, the adventurous tourists, and, of course, the occasional visiting Klingon, desperate for a taste of home. Those were fewer in number with each passing month, and Kurrgo could not survive on his tiny base of regulars alone—especially since the price of importing the necessary ingredients had skyrocketed on account of the strife between the two governments. Most of that, of course, was artificial gouging by that damned Ferengi, but he was also the only one who was willing to cross both borders and acquire the necessary foodstuffs for Kurrgo.
As he said good-bye to a retired doctor who came every night for a bowl of taknargizzards, Kurrgo thought, Speaking of whom, that little troll should have been here yesterday with that fresh supply oftarg s. Where is he?
He looked around. And where is Larkan? He should have been here an hour ago.It was the height of the dinner hour, and all four of his waiters should have been present. Though the crowd was sufficiently thin that the three who had made it in were more than enough to handle the load. Still, it was the principle of the thing…
After seating a couple—Gran Marits with his latest conquest—the young Cardassian errand boy that Kurrgo had hired the previous month came running up to him. “It’s Lig on the comm.”
“Finally,” Kurrgo muttered. He went into the back, and Lig’s big-eared, small-eyed face appeared on Kurrgo’s battered old viewscreen. The image started to lose focus until Kurrgo slammed the comm unit on the side. Then Lig came into full view, making Kurrgo regret going to the trouble. The Ferengi’s face was easier to look at when you couldn’t see it.
“We’ve got a big problem,”Lig said without preamble. “My ship’s been impounded.”
“What? What for?”
“Apparently, the tariffs on goods coming from Klingon territory have quadrupled in the last week. The customs officer made some comment about how we have to pay a higher price if we want anything that comes from ‘those murderers’ entering Cardassian space.”
“Murderers?” Kurrgo slammed his fist into the table. “What are they talking about?”